


Glitz, Glam, and Doolally with a Side of Potato

by ScotlandEvander



Series: Don't Ever Change [6]
Category: Actor RPF, Benedict Cumberbatch Fandom, British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Angst, Budding Romance, Developing Relationship, F/M, Female Friendship, Freak Outs, Gen, Humor, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, POV Alternating, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScotlandEvander/pseuds/ScotlandEvander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It won’t work,” Pamela insisted. “I mean…it won’t. I…he’s…I’m going to Del Rio.”</p><p>She looked at Benedict, sure he’d understand what she meant by that. Going to Del Rio was such a loaded thing for her to say. Del Rio was another world, so far away it was almost unreachable from Tom’s London World. </p><p>“Del Rio,” she restated when Benedict only stared at her.</p><p>“Del Rio,” he agreed.</p><p>In that moment, she knew he understood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glitz, Glam, and Doolally with a Side of Potato

  
OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

I’m not sure what is going on. 

Other than I’ve got too many orders to fill and not enough hands. I seriously need at least five more hands to complete any of this in a timely manner. 

Glorious purse…

Me and my stupid sense of humor.

I mean, it’d already been done— Loki burdened with glorious purses. I saw it on Pintrest. So, it wasn’t actually all that original of me, but…since making that STUPID picture, my orders are trying to kill me.

Has it even been twenty-four hours yet? 

I don’t even know. Is it Wednesday or Friday? Is it still April or did May finally show up?

I DON’T KNOW!

They all want that stupid purse! In blinding orange!

I am so….dumtaffic it’s not even funny. 

I don’t even remember where the hell I got that material I made that first one. Likely Walmart. In Del Rio. 

I am not going to Del Rio just to go to freaking Walmart. That doesn’t even sell fabric any longer. (They phased it out while we were still living there. It was completely tragic on too many levels to even comprehend.)

Well, I am in Texas. They hunt here, so they likely will have something blinding orange around somewhere, right? 

But…RHSKFJSODIUFSDKJFSD. I can’t even be bothered to make up a word for how overwhelmed I am, y’all. 

I need a brain exchange, please. I’m an idiot.

I must be taking Basil’s Moron Pills again. Best stop that. Not good for business. 

I really ought to talk to my mother. She sews. And getting a license in Illinois wasn’t all that hard— if I can convince my mother to run the thing I’d have to in the local paper. (DuPage requires one to run an announcement in a local paper to make yourself legal.)

Can I operate out of two states like that? 

I have no idea. Maybe I should talk to a JAG? 

(Why do I always think of Tom Cruise when I think of military lawyers? Wait, wasn’t he in a movie where he was a Navy lawyer? He was! Jack Nicholas shouted he couldn’t handle the truth.)

(Yes, because thinking about that movie is going to solve my problems. Good job, Door. You’ve distracted yourself now. Bad Door.) 

I’m sitting in a pile of leather and cotton on the floor of the apartment and I feel spent. I’m also not sure how long I’ve been sitting here. Time has lost all meaning since the Orange Purse Incident. I’m sure not many days have passed. Pamela’s still not here. So, it must be only…Friday.

Oh god, it’s only Friday. No, it’s not Friday. Where is my phone?

OMG. It’s THURSDAY. It hasn’t even been twenty four hours!

I want to crawl into a ditch, curl up with a blanket and watch bad TV. Like really bad TV, the kind that requires no thinking at all. 

Or, I want to invent some sort of machine and add at least twenty-four more hours to a day.

Or, I’d like to sew on ten more arms.

I need more sleep. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell the dog, who is mournfully staring at me from the carpet (she hates the wood floor, even if it is covered in leather and cotton and she can walk on those things easily). 

She flops over onto her side and continues to stare at me looking pathetic. (Of course she is— it’s what she does: looks pathetic. It’s part of the reason everyone loves her. Oh, look at that poor tripod dog. Isn’t she cute?)

(She’s fooled them. It’s how she got us. Standing there on her three legs, all alone in a fenced in area, begging for attention by looking pathetic. And then barking when people paid attention to her.) 

(We should have known she’d be trouble from the get go— but she was so dirty and sad looking and a tripod. Of course we had to adopt her!)  

(And boy was she dirty. We didn’t even know she had white on her till we bathed her three times after we got her home.)

(And it’s no wonder she hates baths…more than likely scared her for life within minutes of getting her into the house— even if she felt and looked a thousand times better after her first bath(s).)

(We got her at an adoption fair in San Antonio, BTW. She did not enjoy the three hour ride in the back of our Subaru— which we left in Alaska b/c the A/C broke when Jason was in Alabama and it totally sucked in Texas in the summer to race around in the racing station wagon.)

Oh, god. I’ve got off topic again and spent the last three minutes reminiscing about the dog!

I throw a scrap of leather at her.

It hits her in the head and stays there. Basil can’t even be bothered to move it off her head. 

Flopping forward into the pile of leather and cotton that has become the bane of my existence, I let out a scream. 

Then I fall silent. The silence rings around me (silence always rings because I’ve got tinnitus and didn’t know it till my mom was diagnosed when I was in high school— I just thought that was silence sounded like). 

Then real ringing starts and I let out a short scream.

Oh, god. The ringing is getting louder and more ring sounding. 

Oh. Wait.  

The laptop is ringing. 

I push myself into a seated position as the dog sits up, the scrap of leather falling of her head. She stares at the piece of leather as if she hadn’t realized it was on her head in the first place. 

Idiot.

I grab blindly for the laptop on the mess that was formerly the dining room table. It falls off the table and somehow I manage to catch it before it crashes to the ground. After futzing around with it, I see the call is coming from Pamela. 

I answer.

“Good day, maiden!” I call out, plastering a not tired expression on my painfully tired face. 

“Door.”

“Pamela?”

“Door, I did something stupid.”

I perk up instantly. “Oh, pray tell, dear Pamela.”

Pamela never does anything stupid. I’m not sure she knows how to do stupid things. I’m the idiot, moron, person with a tiny brain in this relationship. I’m the barmy woman who lacks the mental skills to organize my sock drawer. (Seriously, my socks never match even if I pair them up after doing laundry.) 

“I let Tom book me a ticket to LA,” she whispers, looking around like she’s waiting for him to leap out at her and attack her. 

“You did what?” I ask.

I stick my finger into my ear to try to clear it out. 

“I mean, I didn’t realize what he was doing at first because I’m brain dead over here for some reason, but I let him book me a ticket to LA when he is going to LA on Friday night,” she explains, her dark eyes still darting all over the place. 

It clearly is not Friday, as Pamela is not on a plane and it’s night where she is— great. It has been less than twenty fours since the whole Glorious Purse thing. 

Bugger. 

“Okay,” I slowly say, trying to get my mind around what she told me. Five minutes pass before my head works out what she said. “Wait, wait a second. LA? Aren’t the MTV Movie Awards this weekend?”

Pamela nods over, still looking like she’s waiting for someone to snatch the computer she’s using for the video chat away form her. 

“Where the hell are you?”

“Tom’s flat,” she says. “Uh, we’ve, er, well, uh…he showed up to the _Sherlock_ set, and, uh, kidnaped me.”

“He kidnapped you?”

“After burning off my tongue,” she says, looking over her shoulder.

“He burned your tongue off then kidnapped you? Ben let him? Did you not ask to use his computer?” I ask, figuring this might be the reason for her bizarre, twitchtastic behavior. 

“He gave me tea, which I then burned my tongue on. It was kind of sweet. I was cold and he brought me tea,” Pamela says, sounding dreamy for a moment before going back to twitchtastic. “Ben had to work.”

“Okay, why are you twitchtastic?”

“I am not.”

I give her a look. She refuses to meet my gaze, choosing to have her eyes dart around like a laser pointer messing with a dog. 

“So, you’re going to LA, then? Why?”

“I don’t know!”

I hear something in the background and Tom’s voice greets someone cheerfully. Pamela jumps like a scared mouse. She turns around and stares at what I assume is the doorway off camera. Turning back to the laptop, she leans in closer and begins to whisper frantically at me. 

“He wants me to go to the…that thing with him on Sunday! He’s been trying all day to get a seat near him instead of in the back! I have to report on Tuesday! I can’t do this! What is wrong with me?” 

She yanks at her hair.  

She kind of looks how I imagine I looked before she called: crazed. 

“I am not like this! I do not simply go to the MTV Movie Awards! I do not do things without massive planning! I’m a pilot! I’m a captain! I’m in charge of the plane!” she yells, having giving up with the whole whispering thing. 

She is also once again channeling Martin Crieff.  

“Yo, dude, calm down,” I urge, raising my hands to placate her. 

She reels herself in and goes stiff. 

“I didn’t even know MTV was still a thing,” Pamela admits, looking bewildered. 

“Well, I guess it is,” I say, sighing deeply. 

Pamela’s eyes begin to take in the background on my end and she frowns. “What the hell happened?”

I look around me. I’m still seated in a pile of leather, cotton and various odd and ends of purses. 

It kind of looks like I waged a war and lost. 

“Uh, I got some orders last night. Like too many to count,” I mutter. “I went viral. Again. Everyone wants a bright orange bag. I didn’t have any orange, so I went out this morning and got some…varying shades of orange. And then…had a fight with the fabric and it won. Clearly.” 

I laugh uneasily. Everything around me is some sort of shade or orange. 

Except me. I am not orange. Nor am I wearing orange. 

I hate orange. 

“I think if this continues, I’m gonna need my own webpage,” I admit, raking a hand through my out of control hair. (I’ve totally given up battling with it and just let it go with the flow.) “It’s not a lot to set up, but I don’t know anything about designing a webpage.”

“I can’t help you,” Pamela flatly says. 

“Pamela!”

Pamela’s being changes the moment Tom calls for her. Gone is the women I’ve known the past four years. Gone is the pilot, the organized, critical woman who can talk technobabble around me in circles for hours. Gone is the woman who is so anal she irons her jeans. She is replaced by something I never thought I’d see: a girl who is head over heels. 

She thinks it’s just a silly crush— hence her freak outs and the fact she hated me yesterday. It is not a crush.

OMG, it’s not a crush. 

WHAT THE HELL? 

I knew she thought Hiddleston was cute. I knew she liked his hair when he played Magnus, but she never LOOKED like this when she was faced with his being on screen. 

It is so beyond crush level. I see passed the dazed, excited yet kind of scared look in her eyes, the pinking of her cheeks, and the tightness of her posture. The depth of attraction shows in how she leans towards the direction his voice comes from, how her eyes trail over that way and away from me. 

Tom enters from somewhere off to the left, coming into view when he sticks his face in front of Pamela and greets me with a huge smile and cheery wave.

“Hi, Door, Girl Who Worships Me For My Talent!” he greets.

I stare at his face, which is huge on my laptop screen. 

I don’t feel dazed or anything, but all I can do is stare at him with what is likely a puzzled expression. 

“Hi,” I manage to get out. “I’m Door, also known as Cricket Heidi, Woman Who Makes Orange Purses for a Living.”

I throw some orange leather in the air next to me. 

“Yes, I know. I’m Tom, the Man Who Treads the Boards for a Living. This is Pamela, Woman Who Soars in the Clouds for a Living,” Tom says, backing up to allow Pamela’s face to show again. 

She looks completely besotted. 

Oh, god, this is adorable. 

“So, you taking Pamela with you to the MTV Awards?”

“Of course. It’ll be an experience. I expect her to take notes and tell me all about popular culture at the end. There will be a test,” he says, sounding serious. 

And I laugh.

I laugh because it’s hilarious.

I laugh because Pamela has managed to fall hard for the ONLY actor she’s ever crushed upon.

I laugh because it is bizarre, surreal and all Ben’s fault.

Actually, it is Basil’s fault. If Basil hadn’t taken off for Ben, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to Tom Hiddleston while sitting in a pile of varying shades of orange leather and cotton on the floor in my apartment. 

“Basil, I hate you!” I shout at the dog, startling both Pamela and Tom. 

Basil’s only response to this is to ram her head into the slats of the blinds covering the French doors and to start barking. She jumps up at the fake wooden blinds and attempts to paw her way through them in order to get at whatever she sees.

I throw the laptop aside and rush across the room at her, all the while shouting at her she is a bad dog. 

She doesn’t get the memo. The barking continues even after I’ve locked her in timeout. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

“Are you serious?”

“No, I’m Tom.”

“Did you just make a Harry Potter joke?”

“Ah, so you’ve read Harry Potter! This is a good start on your pop culture education!” Tom exclaimed, clapping his overly large hands together. 

Pamela stared at his hands transfixed till he started talking again.

“Now, we’ve not a lot time to go shopping. I fancy shopping and I feel as if you’re not into shopping…”

Tom trailed off, eyeing the outfit Pamela had chosen to wear. She was in almost the same thing she’d worn yesterday. It wasn’t like she’d brought a ton of clothing with her on her trip—nor did she actually own a lot of civilian clothes. 

“I live in a flight suit,” she realized, staring down at her herself.

She looked utterly absurd at the moment due to the fact Tom had yanked a sweater over her head as soon as they reached the flat. It was five times too large for her and the sleeves were rolled up a ridiculous amount. 

“And that is perfectly fine, darling,” Tom assured her. “I thought you were going to ask Door about dresses? Did you?”

That was why he’d given her his laptop and pushed her into what appeared to be his bedroom. Since joining the Air Force, all events that required nice clothing Pamela simply wore her mess dress (which according to Door was the ugliest thing in the world, but Pamela just hated the fact it had an ankle length skirt. She kind of wish it’d have pants like the male version). 

Pamela didn’t have her mess dress with her, tragically. That option was out. 

“I forgot to ask what to wear,” Pamela blurted out. “I’ve only had to buy a dress once. Last fall. For a wedding. Door sent me to some store that only sold things in black and white and some lady showed me something and I got it.”

Tom quirked an eyebrow. 

“Well, then,” he said. 

Pamela stared at Tom helplessly. He stared back at her with a similar expression. Then, a light bulb went off above his head and he whipped his phone out and dialed. 

“Emma! My favorite sister in the entire world!”

* * *

Pamela wasn’t sure if she was actually living her life or dreaming. For all she knew, she’d fallen asleep in that park in Paris on the bench, was mugged and was actually lying in a hospital in France having some sort of weird coma dream. 

Actually, that made more sense than being in some way too fancy store with Tom Hiddleston’s little sister shopping for a dress to wear to the MTV Movie Awards.

“I don’t understand,” Pamela said for what felt like the millionth time.

Emma gave her a sympathetic smile and pulled dresses out and held them up to Pamela. She rejected the green one, but kept a cream colored one. 

“I know, honey, but you did agree to go with him,” Emma reminded her. 

Likely also for the millionth time. The pair was having circular conversation. The topic was Pamela’s lack of understanding. At any moment Emma was going to murder Pamela. Emma had been a saint all morning with Pamela as they made their way through various stores Pamela never would have set foot within if it hadn’t been for Emma Hiddleston. 

Emma held up a white dress with what might have been ruffles for a skirt. Her eyes lit up and she smiled.

“I think this is it,” Emma said, turning to the woman who’d been trailing behind them and handing the small pile of dresses to the woman. “Have her try the white one on first.”

“Yes, ma’am. This way.” 

Pamela followed the woman, with Emma falling into step next to her. Emma hooked her arm through Pamela’s and pulled her closer. 

“It is quite easy to understand, if you think about it,” Emma said quietly as they made their way to the fitting rooms. She gave Pamela another smile. “My brother does not often become besotted, but he’s rather smitten with you. He is going out of his way to make sure he can spend as much time with you as he can.”

And Pamela’s brain packed up and headed for the North Pole. 

* * *

Four hours later, Pamela had a dress. It was the white one with the ruffle skirt thing. Pamela felt very girly in the dress. The whole thing reminded her of a ballerina outfit. It was the only dress Pamela had tired on that got a positive reaction out of Emma, so without looking at the price tag, Pamela had bought it. If Pamela never set foot in another clothing store for as long as she lived, she wouldn’t mind. 

There was a reason online shopping appealed to Pamela. 

Pamela was still waiting to wake up. 

Or be put into a real coma. 

Neither happened and Emma dragged her into a shoe store.

* * *

“So, I don’t have a night shoot tonight!” Benedict cried upon appearing at the door of Tom’s flat. “And I’m done for the evening early!”

“Aren’t you only done because it is pouring down rain?” Tom teased, allowing Benedict into the flat. “Do you want a potato?”

“No. I remembered you mentioning that you were going to eat only a potato for dinner and came to give Pamela the option to eat a real meal.”

“Spoiled sport,” Tom muttered. “Pamela!”

Pamela was seated in the kitchen, trying to figure out how to operate the camera Tom had thrust upon her when he’d stuck his potato into the oven to bake. 

“Huh?” Pamela blankly asked, finally turning the tiny camera on. She startled as it made a jingling noise. 

Benedict and Tom entered the kitchen. Tom went across from where Pamela was seated and leaned against the counter. Benedict stood next to Pamela, peering over her shoulder at the camera.

“You’re taking video?”

“I said I’d make a video on my last meal for Below the Line,” Tom reminded Ben. “Pamela offered to be the camera operator.”

“If I can work this thing,” Pamela muttered. She looked up a Tom. “I could just use my phone. I know how to use that.”

Tom chuckled, shaking his head fondly. 

“Here,” Benedict offered, leaning around her to show her what buttons to his and how to line up the shot. After a ten minute lesson, she got how to use the blasted thing. Tom acted like an idiot for the entire ten minutes— doing rather odd things that caused Benedict to burst out laughing and leave Pamela feeling as if she was missing something. She guessed he was just acting like a clown, not an idiot. 

And if she’d allowed herself to loosen up a bit, she might have found it hilarious as well. (Tom did have an utterly adorable laugh.) 

(No, no, he did not.)

(Oh, she needed to stop lying to herself.) 

“So, you two are off to LA tonight?” Benedict asked, leaning against the island in the middle of Tom’s small kitchen. 

“Yeah. Redeye to the City of Angels,” Tom said, leaning against the counter opposite Pamela and Benedict. “Oh, Pamela, have you gotten your things from Ben’s?”

Pamela shook her head, cheeks going pink. “I’ll do it after we eat.”

Every time she thought about the past three days of her life, her stomach loaded up with butterflies and she got dizzy. She felt like an alien. She was sure if she saw herself, she’d want to beat herself up. 

She was acting like a total ditz. 

“Wonderful,” Tom said pleasantly. He peeked into the oven and sniffed. When that failed to yield any results, he poked the potato. “I think it’s nearing completion. I guess I ought to run through what I plan to say.”

“No cue-cards?” Benedict teased, folding his long fingers together as he balanced his elbows on the island next to Pamela. Benedict had abnormally long fingers as well. 

Did all guys in England have huge hands with long, elegant fingers? 

Pamela tried to hide her own fingers, as she did not have long, elegant fingers. The guys in her pilot training class had teased she had something called “carny hands.” She had no idea what that meant, nor did she want to ask. (It’d happened after the whole tea bagging incident. She’d learned not to inquire about strange things that made them laugh.) 

“No. I’m a professional. I need no cue cards,” Tom proclaimed, puffing out his chest. 

Pamela quelled a giggle. 

Pamela did not giggle. 

Tom ran through what he was going to say a few times before he concluded it was high time to start filming. Benedict leaned back on the counter behind Pamela, while she aimed and shot Tom talking about his week living on a pound a day. She was highly distracted by his hands as he fidgeted. Luckily, part of her head was on the task at before her, as when he  moved to take out his potato out of the oven, she followed him across to the oven steadily. And then back, till she hit stop as he headed off to eat his potato.

“Okay, wanna see?” she asked, eyes glued to the camera in her hands. 

Images of his hands stroking his own throat filled her head. 

When had she reverted to a silly girl? Her heart was pounding, she was sweating and she was honestly going to have to go to the flight doc and see if a hive of bees hadn’t taken up residence in her stomach. 

Pamela was seriously an alien creature at the moment. This did not happen to her. Boys did not cause her to react this way. 

Tom’s hand (oh god) came into view as he hit some buttons on the digital camera to replay the video she’d just shot. Tom hummed his approval and bragged to Benedict he’d nailed it in one take.

“Better you and the street,” Tom laughed.

Together, the two actors laughed, each trying to outdo one another one way or another. Pamela simply stared as the Tom on the video stroke his own neck with that huge hand.

God, she hated him. 

No, she didn’t.

Yes, she did.

Oh, someone find her a freaking hole and just let her die already. She was so done it wasn’t even funny. It was the opposite of funny: tragic. 

She was positive she’d never felt like this before. She wasn’t…well, she wasn’t a hermit or anything. She’d dated. She’d had boyfriends. Hell, she thought she was in love once. But, then she commissioned and her life had become airplanes, immature boys, and hopping the International Dateline. She hadn’t even noticed it’d been almost four years since she’d actually _liked_ a guy enough to be interested in dating him. 

Oh god, she could not DATE Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston!

No. No. NO. NO!

“Pamela?”

Pamela snapped her attention to Benedict, currently convinced that voice could do anything. It’d stopped her panic in its tracks. 

Could she take him home with her? The next few days of being one on one with Tom Hilddeston were going to end her.

“Are you ready? Tom must eat his lonely potato,” Benedict said, smiling. 

Pamela returned that smile— that safe, crooked smile. The smile that did nothing to her insides.

“Yeah. Where were you thinking?”

Benedict shrugged. “Something simple. Likely take away, if you don’t mind.”

“Nope. Let’s go,” she said, setting the camera down on the island. She peeked at Tom. “I’ll, uh, er, um, I’ll see you later.”

“Of course, baby doll. Enjoy your food,” Tom pleasantly said, beaming at her, while still holding his potato in the oven mitt he’d put on to take it out of the oven. 

Pamela hurried to follow Benedict out of the flat, ignoring the fluttering at the endearment Tom had chosen to use this time. She was to the point she could ALMOST handle the whole _darling_ thing (he did call everyone _darling_ ), but nothing else. 

“Are you alright?” Benedict quietly asked as they stepped out of the building a few minutes later. He held the door open for her. The cold air hit her like an ice blast, but a welcomed ice blast.

“Sure,” Pamela said. “I just…I…”

Benedict gave her a soft smile and lightly nudged her in the shoulder with his elbow.

“It’s perfectly normal,” he assured her, putting his hands into the pockets of his jacket. 

“What is?”

“To like a boy,” Benedict said, giving her a soft smile. “You are about as transparent as he is— after you stopped being mad at yourself.”

Pamela opened her mouth to deny it, but didn’t bother. They walked to the curb, where Benedict threw his hand out and a cab showed up. 

“I keep waiting to wake up,” Pamela confessed once they were in the cab and on their way back to Benedict’s flat. “I’ll be in Paris, in that park I slept in and this will all just be…a dream.”

Benedict didn’t reply.

“It’s not a dream,” Pamela whispered, eyes glued at London flying passed her.

“No, dear, it’s not,” Benedict quietly agreed. 

“Oh, god. What am I going to do?”

Pamela turned to Benedict, who was regarding her in the growing darkness with a peculiar expression. 

“That…I do not know the answer to. Nor do I know what to tell you,” Benedict admitted. “I’m sure only you can decide what you want to do.”

Pamela turned away. 

“It won’t work,” Pamela insisted. “I mean…it won’t. I…he’s…I’m going to Del Rio.”

She looked at Benedict, sure he’d understand what she meant by that. _Going to Del Rio_ was such a loaded thing for her to say. Del Rio was another world, so far away it was almost unreachable from Tom’s London World. 

“Del Rio,” she restated when Benedict only stared at her.

“Del Rio,” he agreed.

In that moment, she knew he understood.

“I shouldn’t have let him steamroll me into…I let him buy me a ticket to LA.”

Granted, he had likely paid just as much for her one way flight to LA as she’d paid for the damn dress hanging in the coat closet of Tom’s flat. 

“You wanted to go with him. I’m sure if you didn’t, you’d said something.”

“I feel like an alien,” Pamela admitted, knotting her fingers together in her lap. “Since I’ve left America, nothing’s gone right. Everything been like out… it’s been fiction since I left. I mean, in real life, whose vacation blows up in their face like mine did? Who arrives in London and gets retrieved from a Tube station by someone famous, only to meet another famous person and…”

She did not want to say _fall in love_. Or even _fall for_. She didn’t want to put words for what had happened to her in the last three days. 

“Well, if you ever get bitten by the writing bug, at least you’ve got a good novel,” Benedict quipped.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

“I’m going to need a website designer, someone to manage my money, someone to sew some of the bags for me…a lawyer.” 

I stare at the list I made. I glance at Basil, who of course, has nothing to add. 

“I could incorporate,” I go on, even though Basil doesn’t care. She cocks her head to the side and stares at me steadily. I stare right back. “You know, this whole thing is mental.”

Her head cocks the other way, as if she agrees.

“Well, onward and upward, Dog,” I say, tossing the paper away from me and grabbing the nearest half constructed purse. 

I work steadily for a long time till I realize I’m stiff and Basil’s fury head is in my lap. Sighing, I stand and go to get her leash. 

While I aimlessly walk around the apartment complex with the mutt, I ponder life. If I am honest, I cannot deal with the amount of orders I’ve got at the moment and sleep. While I don’t sleep a ton, I have to sleep. I didn’t sleep during high school and my mother told me once she almost had me committed. 

I want my mommy. 

Mostly for her ability to sew. Well, and her talent for snapping me out of my moments of total sottishness. (And that is a real word. Look it up.) 

Barhlg. 

I started this whole shop thing because I was bored in Del Rio and the school year ended— thus there were no more sub jobs to keep me entertained. (I was a sub for the majority of the time we were in Del Rio, to starve off the boredom and have a bit of money to buy clothes. It’s hot. I didn’t own summer clothing.) 

The only time I’ve been busy since I opened the shop (before Benedict Cumberbatch) was my first Christmas. I filled at least an order a day plus had five custom orders during the holiday rush. I thought it was brilliant and wonderful and couldn’t wait till the next holiday season….

When I had no orders. The entire time I was in Alaska, I had a total of four custom order requests and sold maybe twelve purses in three years. 

In Alaska, my whole business withered and died. 

Only to come bursting back to life thanks to my new famous friends. 

“Come on, French roots,” I say to Basil, causing her to stop attempting to walk in the opposite direction of the stairs to our apartment.

I still don’t know what _French roots_ means to the dog, but it always gets her to go where I want her to go. Or, it makes her leap around in circles and look thrilled. 

If only I had a magical word that made purses. I tried saying French roots to the leather, but it simply remained sitting around doing nothing. 

* * *

_Jumping off a roof today. Being up here reminds me you might wish to speak to Pamela. She’s being affected by sentiment. Mountains of sentiment._

I stare at the text blearily. 

It takes me a full ten minutes to realize it’s Benedict Cumberbatch texting me. It is another two before I remember he’s my freaking friend. It’s yet another minute before I remember that Pamela and Tom are flying to LA today. Or did. Or are. Or something.

What time is it?

It’s six bloody thirty in the morning.

“BENEDICT!” I scream, sitting up in bed.

I throw my iPhone. 

Jason whacks me with my pillow.

Basil barks.

The entire apartment complex hates me. 

FML.

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

Luke was a very nice man. 

Luke was a normal man surrounded by glitz and glam and famous people. He had a job to do and he did it flawlessly. He herded Tom away from fans, to reporter after reporter and occasionally glared and caused Tom to laugh and get back on point when Tom got distracted— which he did often. 

“So, this is a first,” Luke said, once he’d managed to get Tom away from the fans and got him moving down the red carpet.

Pamela was freezing.

Why was she forever cold?

“What?” Pamela asked, trailing next to Luke as they slowly moved down the carpet with Tom as he moved from reporter to reporter. Luke looked around, texting away— likely looking after his other clients. 

Tom wasn’t his only client, right? 

She was kind of dazed. Anyone who woke up this morning and stepped out of her room to find Tom Hiddleston’s lanky form sitting on a couch would be stupefied. 

“I don’t think Tom’s ever randomly brought a guest,” Luke offered, his eyes scanning the scene before him and texting at the same time. 

Pamela was still waiting to wake up. She had thought over everything she and Benedict had spoken about during their final dinner together, but she still was holding out she was stuck in a dreamworld.

Looking around her right now, she appeared to be in a dreamworld— designer dresses and shoes, beautiful starlets, handsome actors left and right, and cameras flashing all around her while people shouted for famous people’s attention. 

Pamela did not belong in this world, yet here she was standing on a red carpet off to the side.  And she was bitterly cold.

Why was LA so damn cold?

Pamela wrapped her arms around herslef as Luke tugged on her elbow and dragged her with him as he trailed after Tom. 

Tom removed his jacket and gave it to the reporter he was speaking to.

Luke sighed. 

Pamela felt like she stuck out, even though if Tom’s reaction to her appearance was anything to go by, she looked fine. 

Still, she moved to hide behind Luke. 

Door would tell her to just let herself go and embrace the romantic feelings stirring within Pamela’s usually logical heart. (And stop trying to convince herself she was dreaming some sort of whacky dream.) 

Luke looked over his shoulder at her. He raised his eyebrows at her. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Does anyone?” Luke blankly asked, turning back to his cell phone. He raised his head up and stared down the red carpet. He sighed and nodded, texting again. “When did you meet Tom? Must be recently. I haven’t been warned, told, or seen any photos of the two of you.”

“Three days ago,” Pamela whispered, feeling her cheeks heat up.

She was an idiot.

“Really? Wait…you’re the girl with the orange bag? Cricket?”

“I’m not Cricket,” Pamela said, snapping to attention. “Cricket is Door.”

Luke stared at her blankly. 

“Cricket is a door?” Luke asked, ignoring his vibrating cell phone in his hand in favor of staring at Pamela in confusion. 

Pamela was about to explain, when someone came up, grabbed Luke by the shoulder and began talking much too quickly for Pamela to make any sense of what the person was saying. Luke, though, seemed to understand as he grabbed Pamela’s hand, towed her towards Tom. Pamela tensed up, but Luke just whispered something in Tom’s ear as he took his jacket from the reporter. Tom nodded. Luke turned and walked towards the person who’d spoken to him earlier and handed Pamela to him. The guy continued to talk fast, but Pamela followed him. He entered a building and then threw open a door, telling her to this was the theater. He sat her down in a chair that actually bore her name, then left her there.

Alone.

Pamela blinked a few times, looking around the room she’d been led into. She’d never actually watched MTV at any point in her life. As far as she knew, it had to do with music videos not movies.

Pamela shivered. The room was cold, maybe colder than it’d been outside. 

* * *

Pamela fell asleep. 

Yes, she fell asleep while seated in a theater waiting for an awards show to begin. She had been vaguely aware of the fact the noise level had risen, but she had not bothered to open her eyes till she felt someone shake her gently. 

Sleepily blinking, she found a strange person seated next to her. 

“Where’d you fly in from?” the person asked, smiling kindly.

“London,” Pamela said. “I’m a pilot.”

Oh god, her brain was on DUMB.

“You are?” the woman asked, looking confused. “You’re not a reporter?”

Pamela blinked. “No. I’m a guest. Of a nominee.”

He was nominated, why else would he be here?

“Oh, who?”

“Tom Hiddleston.”

“Oh?” 

Crap. She likely shouldn’t have said that.

“Yeah. He thought it’d be hilarious if I came, as I have no idea what is what when it comes to popular culture. I fly planes for a living.”

“For who?”

“The Air Force,” Pamela replied.

“Oh,” the woman’s whole face changed suddenly. “Thank you for your service.”

The lights thankfully lowered and the conversation ended. 

* * *

Tom was up for one of the awards.

He won best villain and best fight scene.

 _The Avengers_ won best movie. 

Pamela added award shows to the list of things actors did that was boring as hell. 

* * *

“I heard you took a nap.”

Pamela startled, almost screamed, but managed not to. 

She hadn’t seen Tom since before Luke had handed her off to some random minder. She had actually assumed she’d not see him at all for the rest of the evening. Hence why she was surprised to see him now standing next to her seat in the theater. 

She’d secretly almost hoped to escape him without having to say goodbye. 

She had actually hoped she’d be able to just sit in her seat till they kicked her out. 

“I wish I could have taken a nap,” Tom carried on talking when Pamela simply stared at him. “I’m glad I found you. I want you to meet some people, actors I’ve worked with. You likely have no idea who they are, but that’s fine. I’ll give their last names.”

Tom winked at her and grabbed her hand, dragging her out of the building and outside.

It was cold outside.

The world must be ending.

Or she simply brought cold with her wherever she went. 

Pamela was so busy worrying about the fact it was cold in LA, she failed to notice when Tom wound their fingers together. He did it so seamlessly, she did not notice till she was faced with a tall, muscular blond man in a leather coat.

“Pamela, I’d like you to meet Chris Evans. Captain America,” Tom said, indicating to the man standing in front of her. “He was also some other super hero in another super hero movie.”

The man looked down and gave Pamela a smile. “Johnny Storm. Fantastic Four. Pamela, nice to meet you.”

He stuck out his hand. Pamela used her free hand to shake with the larger than life guy’s hand. 

“Nice to meet you as well,” Pamela said, smiling politely. 

There was something about the guy that eased the odd knot that had lived in her gut since she’d left London. It was similar to how Benedict’s voice had calmed her down. 

She had no idea why this guy had a similar effect on her, as he didn’t sound amazing or anything.

He was just some guy. Who was tall. 

“Are you two going to the after party?” Chris Evans inquired. 

“Yes. I just need to find Luke,” Tom said, looking around. 

“I think I saw him with Emma.”

Tom hummed his agreement, looking around the backlot where they were all standing around. Now that she was paying attention, she realized the show hadn’t been in a theater, but on a soundstage on a studio lot. 

Man, she needed some sleep. Proper sleep. 

Or she just needed to wake up from this whacky Hollywood dream. 

“I’m going to track down Luke and see about the car,” Tom said. “Are you going to be here awhile?”

Chris Evans nodded and Tom left Pamela with yet another actor. She could make a list of famous people now— only two of which she remotely knew anything about. 

“You look a little shell shocked,” he teased gently, putting his hands into his pockets. 

Cameras flashed around them, reporters were still walking around with microphones, talking to the winners, talking to other random people. A cold breeze caused Pamela to break out into goosebumps. Pamela shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

“Shell shocked,” Pamela mused, looking back up at the tall man. 

(Was every actor tall?)

“I guess I am shell shocked,” Pamela admitted. 

As she looked around at the action around her, she recognized it was its own sort of war zone. One she was not familiar with, one she was not comfortable within and one that would never be solved with gunfire, bombs or politics. She couldn’t drop a tank, a piece of machinery or a few dozen Army soldiers on it and go home. 

“Well, I guess if you don’t know this kind of stuff, it’d be overwhelming,” Chris Evans allowed, looking a bit confused for a moment. 

Or ill at ease.

“I’m a pilot,” Pamela blurted out to avoid an uncomfortable silence. 

“Really?”

“Yeah. I fly big planes.”

Chris Evans thought for a moment before nodding.

“And I let insane Army guys jump out the back. Or I dropped tanks out of it.”

Chris Evans looks a bit surprised and a little impressed. 

And Pamela finally didn’t feel like she was a sore thumb standing in a sea of beautiful people. She continued to discuss planes (using her phone to show him what a C-17 looked like) with Chris Evans (who she kept calling by his full name in her head for some reason) until Tom returned with Luke. 

 Tom took her hand, weaving his fingers through hers, and Pamela decided she’d allow herself to be Cinderella for a few more hours before she glued her head back on straight and went back to the real world. 

* * *

_Edited and reloaded 19 August 2013_

 


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